


Strife

by animehead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Gunplay, M/M, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing says “I love you” like an elbow to the face… or a gun in the mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strife

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday fic for myself. Based off some fantastic art found here: http://grolify.tumblr.com/image/31820027258

You balance the two large boxes with one hand while using the other hand to turn your doorknob. When it opens to a crack, you kick it wide enough for you to step through the doorway. The heat from the bottom box is burning your arm, but the aroma of cheap, greasy, pizza more than makes up for it. 

 

You’re not really hungry, but you plan to work up an appetite. 

 

You spot your little bro and his idiot boyfriend both sitting on the floor playing your Xbox 360. A few feet away from them, comfortably nestled against a corner of the couch--Playstation Vita in hand--is your clueless beau. 

 

That appetite of yours, he’ll be helping with that. 

 

You walk across the living room and toward the kitchen. You make sure to stop directly in front of the television, successfully blocking the view of the two retards touching your shit without your permission. You take pleasure in their cries of protest and you smirk, pleased with yourself when you hear the familiar tune that plays whenever a player has to repeat a level. 

 

“Asshole,” Dave grumbles and throws the controller at you. You easily dodge it, but leave a mental note to kick his ass for mishandling your shit later. 

 

You make your way into the kitchen and set the pizza boxes down on the table. You retrieve exactly _one_ plate and place two slices of Premium Meat Lover’s pizza on top of it. 

 

There’s a raunchy, amateurish, joke in there. One that would be lost on everyone, except maybe Dave, but he threw your controller, so you’re not going to share your witty sense of humor with him. 

 

Your katana is propped against the wall next to the kitchen table right where you left it. You take your katana and the plate of pizza into the living room where two idiots and one half idiot have their attention focused on various screens, especially Jake. 

 

You come to stand in front of Jake who seems reluctant to pull his attention away from the game, but eventually caves. He looks up at you and graces you with that trademark, doofus, smile of his. 

 

“Hungry?” You say. 

 

He nods and reaches up to take the plate from you, which you willingly give to him. You step away long enough to unsheathe your katana. It falls to the ground next to Dave’s leg and you watch in mild amusement as he hops to his feet and drags John with him. 

 

“Go, go, go,” Dave says and shoves John toward the direction of his bedroom. 

 

Jake is seconds away from his first bite, when, with rapid speed, you turn and send the blade slicing through the air just inches away from his face. The slice of pizza falls to the floor on top of something that doesn’t belong to you, so you don’t care. In truth, you admit to yourself that the blade came much closer to his face than you’d planned, but you still _missed_ him. 

 

No harm, no foul. 

 

“Bloody hell!” He shouts and scrambles to his feet. “Have you gone mad?!”

 

“It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention to your surroundings,” you say. “I’ve told you over and over again to stop being so clueless all the time.”

 

“Well, pardon the fuck out of me, but most surroundings don’t have homicidal maniacs coming at you with frigging swords!”

 

“Even if I put it away, we still wouldn’t be evenly matched.”

 

“You won’t know that until you put it down and make this a fair scuffle between two gentlemanly bros, will you?”

 

“If you insist,” you say. 

 

“I _do_ insist.” He takes his glasses off and rests them on the arm of the couch.

 

You lay your sword across the couch behind Jake. He’s a true gentleman and doesn’t try to get any free shots out of you with your back turned. When you step back in front of him, he has his hand extended in your direction. 

 

“Might we shake on it?” he asks. 

 

You take his hand and give it a firm shake. You barely flinch when he squeezes your fingers together in an attempt to painfully crush them. It fucking hurts, but you expected it, so you equal the playing field by slamming your elbow in his face. 

 

He shouts and immediately releases your hand to clutch at his mouth instead. His words are muffled, but you’re certain you hear some choice colorful words aimed in your direction. 

 

“Your short term memory is non-existent,” you say. “I told you to pay--”

 

When he removes his hand, there’s blood all over it. At first you think it’s from his nose and you wonder if you’ve broken it, but upon closer observation, you realize it’s seeping from his lip. You’ve busted his bottom lip.

 

That’s too bad. 

Fucking collateral damage. 

 

“Are we done here?” You ask. 

 

Jake grins at you, deep crimson dripping from his lips like liquid rose petals. That’s sweet. You’re going to have to write that one down. 

 

You’re on some H. P. Lovecraft shit with that one. 

 

“By the way,” you add, “you’re bleeding.”

 

“We’re just getting started, you cheeky git.” He throws at a punch at you, which you dodge, but you’re not so lucky when it comes to the well placed kick to your shins. It’s a coward’s move, but fuck does it hurt. 

 

You take a swing at him, but he catches your wrist and pulls it behind your back. Still gripping onto it, he raises it at an angle until it feels like your shoulder is about to split in half. You kick behind you in hopes of connecting your heel with his leg, but unfortunately for you, you miss. 

 

Unfortunately for _him_ , the backwards headbutt you bestow upon, doesn’t. 

 

Jake shoves you forward hard enough to make you stumble and clutches his nose this time. “Damn it, man!” He drops his hand to reveal a nasty bloody nose mixing with both the fresh and dried blood from his lip. 

 

“Are we stopping now?” You ask. 

 

He brings his hand back to his nose and winces. “It really hurts. Why do you _always_ have to take things too far?” 

 

You try not to be affected by the pained sound of his voice. He stares at you, eyes filled with unshed tears and you’re instantly annoyed with him, but most importantly with yourself. 

 

He’s right and now he’s also hurt and you have to fix things. 

 

Why do you always have to get so carried away with these things?

 

“Let me see,” you say and reach out a hand toward him. 

 

“No, bugger off.” He takes a step back, still shielding his nose away from your touch. “How do I know you won’t just make things worse? I’m supposed to expect the unexpected, right?”

 

You take a step forward. “Jake, just let me see.”

 

“No, keep your blasted hands away from me. I don’t trust you.”

 

That stings a lot more than you expected. 

 

“I promise not to do anything to make the situation worse,” you say. 

 

“Say you swear,” Jake replies. 

 

“I swear.”

 

He nods and drops his hand and tilts his head up for you to examine his nose. There’s a lot of fucking blood, but you don’t think anything is broken. “I think you’ll--” 

 

You grunt, stumble backward, and double over from an unexpected and rather fucking painful punch to your stomach. Jake takes advantage of your current position and positively backhands the _fuck_ out of you, sending your glasses flying off your face and halfway across the room. 

 

You don’t know which to be more shocked over, the fact that he was fast enough to get the upper-hand over you _twice_ , or the fact that he fooled you in the first place. 

 

You settle for both. You’re both offended and unnaturally proud by both these things. 

 

With your back literally against the wall, you stand upright and position yourself in a fighting stance. Things are about to get interesting. 

 

Or so you think. 

 

It’s funny how quickly your thought pattern changes when you staring at the muzzle end of a Beretta. 

 

“I say, Strider,” Jake says, taunting you with his bloody face smile. “It looks like you’ve gotten yourself into a fucktastrophe of a predicament.” 

 

You look over Jake’s shoulder at your katana still lying untouched on the sofa. He’s standing in front of it, but if you’re fast enough you could--

 

The distinct sound of a gun being cocked pulls you away from your wishful thinking. 

 

“Nope,” Jake says. He takes a step forward, gun pointing at you and you take a step back. Or you _would_ take a step back if not for the fucking wall behind you. “You always tease me for my love of movies, but it looks like watching them paid off. What did you think about my acting skills, Strider?”

 

“Subpar,” you say. “Mediocre at best. In other words, they suck, bro.”

 

“No.” Jake closes the distance between your bodies. He presses his knee against the obvious tent in your pants and you have to bite your tongue to keep from crying out. He uses his free hand to grip your shirt, smearing it with blood before pulling you away from the wall and pushing you forward. Further surprising you, he makes sure to stick out his foot so you trip and fall ungracefully to the floor. 

 

You roll onto your back and are prepared to get up quick enough to make your move toward your sword, but for the first time in fucking _ever_ , Jake moves quicker than you. Before you can even sit up, he’s already lowering himself to the ground and sliding in between your spread legs. 

 

Jake once again leans forward, the weight of him hard and warm against you. He brings the gun up to your face and presses it against your lips. He licks his own lips, the action breaking the forming clot at the corner of his mouth causing it to bleed again. 

 

“ _You_ suck.”

 

He’s obviously challenging you and you’ve never been the type to back down from one of those. Besides, he’s managed to best you twice already. You are not waiting around for a third. 

 

You open your mouth, wide, and stare up heatedly at him. He shakes his head, surprised, but probably not really. You watch a drop of blood fall from his lip and land onto your shirt just as he slides the barrel into your mouth. You wrap your lips around it, coating the metal with your saliva and arching up against him when he slides it back out again. 

 

He does this over and over again, fucking your mouth with his gun while his knee grinds against your cock. The friction is killing you and you reach down to unfasten your belt and unbutton your pants. You slide them as far off your hips as they can go, your fingers gripping the material in frustration. 

 

“Slut,” Jake whispers when you begin rutting against his leg like adolescent. “Are we done yet?”

 

Even though it kills everything you stand for, you break your intense eye contact and lower your eyes in a sign of defeat. 

 

“Good,” he says. “My darn hand was starting to cramp.” He puts the gun down and slides it away from the two of you. “Just so you know, I put the safety on after I threw you to the floor.”

 

“You didn’t throw me anywhere. I tripped.”

 

“Ahh, but you tripped over _my_ foot.”

 

“Jake,” you say. 

 

“Yes, Dirk?”

 

“Just... shut up and fuck me.”

 

“Here? Right now? What about you brother?”

 

“What about him? Do him afterwards if that’s what you want.”

 

“W-What?! I didn’t mean--”

 

“Hey.” You snap your fingers to keep him from bumbling like an idiot. “ _Focus_.”

 

Since you’re both so close to the couch, you’re able to reach beneath it and feel around for the lube you stash there for emergencies such as this. It takes you a few seconds to find it, but when you do, you toss it at Jake who fails to catch it. 

 

You’ll end up dumbfounded if you think how he can go from menacingly aggressive to having less motor skills than Cal on a bad day. 

 

The next minutes following are just a blur of busted lips and bloody kisses. Your clothes are torn, tugged off, and discarded a few feet away from where you lie. Jake positions himself at an angle where he has free use of both of his hands as he slams into you, your legs wrapped around his waist, the floor hard unforgiving beneath your back. He pulls your hand up to his mouth and drags his tongue along each of your fingers and then across the leather of your gloves. His other hand strokes your cock, making the display of his tongue and your glove too much to bear. 

 

You’re amazed by how loud you shout when you cum, heels digging into Jake’s back, hips thrusting, body convulsing and shuddering as Jake uses his hand to milk every fucking drop from you. 

 

Jake manages a few more thrusts, shifting his hips and forcing his cock even deeper into your already sensitive body. Not wanting to get any louder than what you’ve already been--which is pretty fucking embarrassingly loud as it is--you throw your arm over your mouth and dig your teeth into it. 

 

Jake comes a second after that, slamming into you with a final grunt and burying his bloody face against your chest. 

 

“Holy hell,” he murmurs. After a few seconds of heavy breathing and awkward shifting from bodily fluids leaking from certain places, he speaks again. “I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely famished.”

 

Your head falls back against the floor with a soft thump. Yeah, you’re pretty fucking hungry yourself. 

 

A few moments later, you and Jake are mostly dressed. You’ve put away your katana and Jake has put up his gun. The two of you sit on the sofa, watching a bad horror film and eating cold pizza. 

 

You watch Dave who emerges from his bedroom looking annoyed. “Yeah, thanks for that. Really fantastic how you decide the living room floor is your bed so that I have to wait to eat dinner. I actually woke up this morning _wanting_ to eat cold ass pizza for dinner tonight. Shit’s crazy right?”

 

Dave walks into the kitchen and grabs one of the boxes before stepping back into the living room again. He doesn’t say anything else as he continues on, heading toward his bedroom. 

 

You reach down and grab one of the game controllers and fling it in his direction. You don’t even have to look to know it connected with the back of his head. 

 

“Dirk, what the fuck?!”

 

“Don’t throw my shit,” you say to him. You glance over at Jake who grins happily at you with his Vita in one hand and a bag of ice pressed against his lip with the other. You smirk. 

 

If that sight isn’t worth a smile. You don’t know what is.


End file.
